


Free Bird

by RayGonz



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 07:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11436261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RayGonz/pseuds/RayGonz
Summary: "If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me? For I must be traveling on, now."Inspired by "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford."





	Free Bird

**Author's Note:**

> There are two scenes in particular that are quite interesting in the movie. The introduction sequence in the wheat field and of course, the 'fixing the hanging picture' scene. 
> 
> I've set this years after Mexico and let's pretend that the Amaru thing never happened.

**Free Bird**

_Inspired by the film “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford”_

There's a wooden rocking chair on the front porch, dark walnut with curved slopes. It’s not the same as behind the wheel, but it’s free in a way that the driver’s seat never was.

When the days are short, he sits out on the rocking chair, dark wool three-piece suit, feet propped up on the wooden railing that borders the large front porch, a cigar between his lips, the glowing embers from its butt illuminating his face, waiting for the fading, peeling canary yellow bus to meander down the back road. The boy runs out of the bus, up the small dirt path that winds up to the porch steps, towards his father, who carefully pulls away his cigar to allow the boy's cheek to scratchily be tickled by the whiskers of his mustache and stubble. His left-hand tangles in the softness of the boy's brown hair, soothingly, and it's hardly noticeable, but the tip of his pinky finger is somewhat disfigured, only two joints to the smallest finger. With the boy's nose practically at his father's neck, he can smell the familiarity of sawdust and the clean scent of soap against the dark flesh, and the smoke that's slowly reeling in the cold air from the cigar, it's earthy and warm like some kind of meadow in the spring. His chest rumbles as he reminds the boy, "Your mama is making supper, you better wash up."

When the days are stretched out, his fingertips dance through the wheat, running over the grains as the wheat bows as his hand drags along, as he strolls through, languidly, sailing away from the porch, adrift in the sea as his mug of black coffee sits abandoned on the still rocking chair. It's never quite a linear path he walks, it's circular at times and he loops back or veers off to a side for a while, and sometimes, he's moving over the hills at the edge of their property, flying away. His wife has learned that the only reprieve to his wandering is the barreling of a little boy into his thighs, far too excited to tell his father about all the things he's done at school for the day.

Most nights, he doesn't sleep, and if he does, it's never more than three hours. Instead, he lies there on his back, the moonlight trickling in through the window, casting its soft glow onto the curve of his wife's hip as she faces the night boldly. In the beginning of the night, his hand settles on her hip, his chest molding to her back, and he holds her as if she's his anchor, his nose burying into the scent of peaches in her hair. He closes his eyes, trying to vainly drift away into the abyss of sleep, but he's listening to the wind howl when it does, or he's listening to the horses neigh, or for the footsteps, he swears are downstairs. He eventually rolls onto his back, his hand pulling away from his wife, his right hand moving to slip beneath his pillow to the pistol he's always kept there, as his left-hand falls to his sternum. Eventually, under the moonlight, his bare feet pad down the stairs to the porch and he settles into his rocking chair, gun at his side, and on occasion a cigar, and he sits out there, watching the dirt road that winds up to his home and he stares off into the night sky, stars strewn in the black sea, and his mind wanders.

_It had been in the afternoon, just after lunch, he’s sitting in his rocking chair, listening to the wheat dance when he hears the sounds of tires and the purr of an engine._

_There's a hint of gold as the man steps out of the vehicle that's stopped outside their home, a bit of silver at his heels with the spurs and a brimmed hat that tilts back in the sun to take a glance to the porch._

_His index finger and thumb pinch the brim of his hat, sliding across the front of his hat as he dips his chin towards his chest. "Mister Fuller," he concedes politely, southern drawl heavy._

_“Sheriff,” he returns exhaustedly. He reclines, hoisting his heels to the railing, and his hands settle over his chest, threading his fingers together._

_He’s been expecting this visit for years._

That afternoon, when the bus pulls outside the home, nothing is disturbed—the rocking chair is still out on the porch and that old tire swing is out front on that gnarled tree. The boy looks to the barn, expecting the frame of his father, but it's just empty field until the barn. "Papa," the little boy hollers, pounding up the steps to the house, sitting down in his daddy's rocking chair, waiting for the man to appear.

The drain of the sink is pink with blood, diluted with the tap water, and her bloody fingerprints are smeared over the screen door and the counter and the faucet. God, her skirt is sticky with his blood from having cradled his head in her lap, her fingers running through his hair and along his jaw as she pleads for him to stay with her. Her palms are smothered in his blood, all the fragments of skull lost in the dirt, and she had been left with the brain matter and blood, so much blood. She'd limply held onto him, gripping under his arm and lugging him onto her chest, bending his neck awkwardly as she rocked back onto her heels.

The front door opens to his mother, a messy apron thrown over her skirt and her blouse, her eyes puffy and rheumy, glistening still, and her nails though freshly painted last night, are already chipped, dirt under her nails, mixed with hardening blood, but her son doesn't notice that, or the fact that her hands are red and raw from scrubbing away so roughly.

"Mama," he squeaks out, unfamiliar with her presence at the door, not when she should be in the kitchen with the cooling pie and the lemonade, pulling down two tall glasses for him and Papa.

She doesn't say anything, just kneels down beside the rocking chair and her fingers card their way through the boy's hair, staring at all his features that are his father. She's combing his hair, again and again, smiling so softly at him, when an errant tear trickles down her cheek at the memory of the first time she ever gently scraped her nails through her husband's hair.

"Mama," he interrupts, his little hands moving to her wrists.

"Papa planned something for us and we're going to meet him there," she whispers, "I need you to finish up a glass of lemonade for me while I pack some of our things."

The little boy nods along, excitedly.

"But you have to promise me that you won't run out there in the wheat. Stay inside the house until I tell you it's time to go."

_“Your wife and boy here?”_

_“My boy’s at school and his mama is inside, napping,” he softly answers._

_Years ago, the blue agave was supposed to be freeing, no more looking over your shoulder paradise, but it had been some fantasy. The reality was that he could dig some semblance of paradise out somewhere, exist in the bliss of being a few steps ahead in the game, all temporarily until it came crashing down because it was always going to be looking over your shoulder._

_“Did you want to speak to my wife about Bible study,” he feigns ignorance about this visit._

_“No, I came to ask you about the recipe for those ribs you made at the BBQ. They weren’t Texas, but damn, were they good.”_

_Seth smiles before he peels away from the rocking chair._

_It’s a beautiful day—all sunshine and spring. And it’s been one of those mornings where he’s got this lazy curve to his mouth, flapjacks and thick maple syrup and hot coffee, his son’s laughter, his wife’s hands cupping his face as she presses soft kisses, one of those where you have to swear that it can’t be any greater than this._

The boy scampers into the house to the kitchen, running to the pitcher of lemonade and two tall glasses, though one is smudged with a watery brown-reddishness at the lip of it. The boy lifts the dirty glass and moves to place it into the sink, but the soles of his shoes crunch against shards of glass that are all over the tile. "Mama," he calls out as she meanders into the kitchen after having lingered outside, staring off into the wheat.

"Oh," she gasps out, forgetting the mess she made earlier, "Go have a seat on the sofa and I'll bring you a glass."

_She's got a glass in her hand that she's just pulled down from the cupboard and she's watching the two figures grow smaller and smaller the closer they get to the barn. She twists away because she knows that the reason Seth lured him away from the house was to keep the transgression as far as he could from the house they were raising their son._

_The hair on the back of his neck is erect and the flesh is prickly with goose bumps as the Sheriff falls behind uncomfortably slow. There's so much wheat and field before he can get to the barn's doors, and he swallows a lump in his throat._

" _It's Kansas City, isn't it," the Sheriff inquires._

_His left hand is buried deep in his pocket to conceal the missing joint to his smallest finger. As he pulls his hand from his pocket, he swallows thickly, reaching out to the wheat around him, closing his eyes and thinking of the soft voice of his son, telling him that he smells like the wheat after a long day of wandering out here, the boy's hands clasped together around his neck._

_His pistol is inside the house, beneath his pillow and the pistols he's got in the barn are too far away to make a sprint for it. Hell, the spare 12-gauge he's got is sitting in the car, tucked on the driver's side. But he’s resigned himself to the fact that he isn’t going out like Dillinger._

_It’s more like Clyde on some road, though it’s figurative. He’s been driving real slow for the last few years out at this ranch in the middle of Texas, thinking there’s some refuge at the end of the road, until he’s here, a road still stretched out before him but there’s no way to go. The stop so sudden he’s surprised by the vehicle impeding him from continuing onwards._

_He’s ready for not having to drive anymore. It’ll be quiet then, a peaceful lull._

_The first time his wife tried to holler for him when he'd been wandering aimlessly through the wheat, he'd heard her, twisted around for her to see that her bare feet were in the dirt and the whitest blue dress she was wearing was billowing in the breeze, tangling with the wheat that was just within her reach. She'd asked if he wanted company and he declined this time. It was the first time he ever told her to not come with him. He smiled at her then, in that way he does, like he did when they’d been on that beach in Mexico and she’d been wearing the same damn dress with the preacher there. He hopes that this time, he gave her that same damn smile before he went out to his rocking chair earlier._

_His hands are continuously moving through the wheat, recalling the beginning to end, dawn to dusk._

_He’s been on the road so long, he’s forgotten how the wind and the sun can feel on your face._

_After several paces, "It's not the blue agave I was expecting," he confesses softly._

_The gunshot echoes._

_Her spine stiffens at the sound and she turns around to the window, towards the barn, and when she sees the frame of the Sheriff standing there in the wheat, the glass slips from her hand._

 

 


End file.
